


by our hands He cleanses

by problems



Series: passages for a new dying [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Biting, Blood Drinking, Cannibalism, Choking, Dubious Consent, Injury, M/M, Masochism, PWP, Post-Fall, Rimming, Sadism, Spit As Lube, comfort/hurt, dirty talk about gore and murder, pretension - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problems/pseuds/problems
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will considers resisting for a brief moment, but what is the point? If Hannibal Lecter wants to have sex with him, he will. Hannibal is a force of nature that cannot be stopped or redirected by something so meager as the will of a man — if Will has learned anything, it is this. Better to let it come, wash over him like the storm, and find his peace in the wreckage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	by our hands He cleanses

**Author's Note:**

> it's just some porn, don't worry about it

Will comes to on the shore.

He opens his eyes and all that fills his vision is the sky. It stretches infinitely in every direction, endless and all consuming. Will might have wondered if this was what being dead was like, had he faith in anything but the inevitability of oblivion.

It does not take him long to realize that he is alive. The pain assures him of that soon enough.

Groaning, Will rolls onto his side. Wet cold sand surrounds him, and his body sinks into it deeply. It feels unpleasant on his skin.

He moves, but Hannibal does not. 

Will sits up and looks down at the shape of Hannibal lying beside him in the sand. He touches Hannibal's throat for a pulse but his hand is shaking so badly he can't even tell. He reaches his hand out over Hannibal's mouth and feels for a breath, but there is nothing.

If Hannibal is not dead already, he's near enough. All Will needs to do is stand up and leave, let the surf take him back and dash him against the rocks until he bloats and rots is picked apart by the wild. It would be effortless. At last, Will would be free.

Instead Will crawls over Hannibal's body, tilts back his head, pinches his nose shut and presses their lips together.

Will breathes five times and begins chest compressions. His arms are weak and trembling but he still has strength enough to crack Hannibal's rib. He counts to a minute and breathes twice more into Hannibal's mouth.

He's not thinking about it, not really. He's not sure how long he's knelt there in the sand. Time blurs into a haze. His face hurts, he notes for the first time. His mouth is full of blood — Hannibal's lips are smeared in it. He lets it dribble out over his chin. His shirt is already so dyed with blood it makes no difference.

He pumps Hannibal's chest until his arms begin to tire and he feels short of breath. It's an effort to keep his eyes open, stay awake. But he doesn't stop or slow — his body seems intent on carrying him forward until death takes the last of him.

Will almost doesn't notice when Hannibal splurts water from his mouth. He keeps compressing his chest until Hannibal brings a hand up, around his wrist, grip feeble, and rasps, "Will."

Will stops, and at once he feels his heart in his own chest. He feels it beat more strongly than he ever has before. He looks down frozen into Hannibal's eyes, the man's face awash with blood and sand, and has no idea what to say. _What have I done?_

Hannibal lurches and rolls onto his stomach and vomits water and blood and bile and flesh onto the shore, his fingers digging deeply into the clammy grey sand. Will crawls after him, hand on Hannibal's back, and he rubs him there, gently in circles. He can feel the brand under his bloody shirt. Hannibal's lungs heave with air, spit dripping from his mouth.

"You drowned," Will says. As if that weren't obvious. 

Hannibal doesn't immediately respond. He draws a few voiceless breaths, like he's trying to laugh, but can't quite produce the sound. He shudders. It feels vulnerable. Will could wrap his hands around Hannibal's throat and he wouldn't have the strength to stop him. It's not too late to send the demon back to the Hell from whence he crawled.

But he doesn't. Hannibal collapses and turns onto his back. He stares into Will's face without fear, hand on his stomach, over where he was shot. Does he feel pain? Will contemplates digging his fingers into the wound, ripping it apart, taking Hannibal's viscera into his hands — biting the — 

"So did you," Hannibal says. He's smiling.

Will snaps back into focus. "Yeah," he says. He licks his own lips. He can't stop staring at his blood on Hannibal's mouth. "I did."

Hannibal draws a great breath and sits up. Will knows him well enough to see he's straining from the effort, though he shows little of it. "We are dead men, now, Will," he concludes, pulling himself to his feet. "But we'd best be careful that no one be lead to think otherwise."

Hannibal offers Will a hand and he takes it. It's hard to stand, but with Hannibal's arm at his back, he manages. They lean on each other as they limp up the shore.

Will feels weaker than he'd realized. He's lost a lot of blood, but surely less than Hannibal. It's a wonder that Hannibal can carry on at all — shot, drowned, back from the brink of oblivion for a matter of minutes, and he supports Will's weight all the same.

"You're still bleeding," Will mumbles. He feels it on his fingers, seeping into the already drenched fabric around the gunshot.

"Yes. We will both need prompt medical attention, or our undeath will be a short one."

"Where." Will stumbles as they climb up the bank. "We can't... we can't go to a hospital, and we're — we're in the middle of nowh—"

"Shh," Hannibal says. "Save your breath. You'll need it for more important things than doubt."

Will loses his footing and falls. He slips from Hannibal's fingers like water. "You must get up, Will," Hannibal says. His voice is calm and sure, but his own legs are trembling, all the color gone from his face. "You must get up or you will have killed us for nothing."

"I just wanted all of this to be over," Will gasps. The breeze is freezing on his wet skin. 

"It is over." Hannibal reaches out a hand again. "We have been cleansed by the fires of our becoming, and reborn from the black sea. Nothing of that life matters, now — only you, and only me."

"Hannibal." Will crawls. His hands claw at Hannibal's calves, his thighs, fingers dug deeply into the soaked fabric of his pants. He feels himself fading. "Hannibal."

"Will, you must — you have got to —"

Will pulls Hannibal down to the grass. Hannibal falls to his knees, and takes Will into his arms. He cradles him. Will claws at his shoulders, throat...

"Will," Hannibal says, gentle, barely more than a whisper. His hand, cold, shaking, touches the side of Will's face — Will's blood lets onto his hand. 

Will gropes for the back of Hannibal's neck and tangles his fingers into his hair. He holds Hannibal's shoulder with a crushing grip and pulls himself up, closer — the warmth of Hannibal's body radiates out from beneath the chill of the sea on his skin. Everywhere they touch scorches. The water that drips from Hannibal's nose onto his cheek boils away like the surface of the sun. He wants to fall into him and melt away until not even his bones are left. Letting go is unthinkable.

Hannibal's breathing is uneven over Will's skin. His lips part unthinkingly as Will drags him down, down, until there's nowhere left to go, and at last they meet, hot, clammy, sweet with blood and bitter with sick.

For once, Will can feel Hannibal's shock. It's a triumphant sensation to feel the walls come down, brick by brick. Hannibal's eyes flutter closed and his hold tightens and he kisses back, gentle at first, and then eager, and then hungry — the pain means little and less. Hannibal's tongue pushes past Will's lips and Will lets him lick the blood from his mouth, less than a kiss than a... he wants — Hannibal to — 

eat —

When Hannibal pulls back his face is streaked in blood, but he is smiling. Will looks at him and he can't help but laugh, like he's mad, his lips pulled back over his teeth like an animal, stained red and dripping. He shakes, rakes his nails against Hannibal's skin, and he can't stop laughing, or maybe he's sobbing. Hannibal softly looks upon him, smooths his hair... Will's vision is too clouded by tears to see. It hurts so much, and he's weak, fading. "Hannibal. Hannibal," Will babbles, delirious. "Hannibal."

"Will, stay with me," Hannibal implores. "Don't go. Not so soon after you've arrived."

Will closes his eyes, and when he next wakes, he is not sure if he still alive.

It takes him a while to make sense of where he is and orient himself. He is lying on a soft surface. He is covered in sheets. He is breathing, if nothing else.

His body has been bathed. His face and chest are stitched and bandaged and the rest of his injuries from the fall have been tended to, as well. He's still weak when he pushes himself up on his arms and looks around the room. He's inside, and on a bed, and he dully realizes, naked. It's morning. The spot next to him is still warm.

His entire body aches when he shifts to let his feet touch the floor. His tattered clothing is draped over a chair by the bed. While it's still heavily stained with blood — the original color of his shirt is all but entirely unrecognizable, every inch covered in a sickly mottle of faded yellow and brown — it appears to have been washed. The fabric is still a bit chilly when he touches it, but it's dry enough to wear. It smells like Hannibal.

Everything smells like Hannibal. It's the only thing he can smell at all. 

He dresses himself and wanders aimlessly through the house. It's a small cabin, it seems. Just one bedroom, a bathroom... which he urgently must use, he realizes. When he finishes, he next locates a living room joined with a kitchen. It's where he finds Hannibal. 

Hannibal is at the stove. He is shirtless, but his torso is wrapped in bandages. Will can see the blood faintly blossoming under the dressing of his gunshot wound. Did he really do the surgery himself, with no anaesthetic? 

Will stops in the center of the kitchen and stands for a while. Hannibal does not turn to address him, though he clearly must have noticed his approach. "Where are we?" Will asks. He can't think of anything better to say.

"It seems God has no intention of letting us go gentle, Will," Hannibal answers. "Ever we rage against the dying of the light."

"What?"

Hannibal glances over his shoulder. "I stumbled upon this cabin not far from where we washed ashore. I could not have gone on for much longer, not carrying your weight."

"Oh," Will says, blankly. "That's... lucky."

Hannibal laughs. "Some serendipity is so profound that it would take a fool to think it anything but fate."

Will releases a heavy sigh and draws closer to look into the skillet on the stove, but his eyes are so unfocused that he can't make sense of what's in it.

"We will have to leave here quickly," Hannibal says. "We are still close to the scene of the crime. They will come looking for us before long."

"Yeah," Will says. His hands awkwardly find their way into the pockets of his pants. He stands and looks on dumbly as Hannibal works, until he grows too weak to support his own weight. Then he limps over to the kitchen table, and lets himself collapse into one of its chairs. His place is already meticulously set, but for the meal itself.

It's not long before Hannibal finishes up, plates the meat from the skillet and sets one in front of Will at the table.

Hannibal seems physically collected now, but the sight of the plate before him is startling. It's a far cry from Hannibal's typical standard of production — it's just a cut of meat, some eggs and a slice of toast. Even the presentation is positively haphazard. The man would have to be truly at his limits to present to Will something so... _normal._

Will takes it without complaint. He's starving. "What is this?" Will asks. He puts the meat into his mouth before he even gets an answer anyway. 

Hannibal smiles at him from across the table. 

Will can only chew on one side of his face. His jaw feels weak and mildly swollen. The pain isn't that bad, though — did Hannibal make him take painkillers?

With some food in his body, it becomes easier to think straight. Will scans the room, and he can't help but idly analyze. "Someone lived here," he says. "From the mess in the sink, it doesn't look like they've been gone for long."

"I persuaded the owner to let us take a temporary residence," Hannibal says, and picks up his knife and fork.

Oh, they're eating him. Of course. 

Will is past the point of even caring. It tastes fine. He's only slightly curious where Hannibal has put the rest of the body, and where he found the time or strength to butcher it. He finishes his plate in a matter of minutes and isn't quite satiated. "Where will we go?"

Hannibal paces himself with his meal. "I think it may be best if we simply lay low for a while. Let them think that we are dead," he says. "After that — South America, perhaps."

"And how are we supposed to get to South America?" Will is thirsty, so he gets up and gets a glass from the cupboard. He fills it from the tap and takes a drink, then turns to look at Hannibal from where he's leaned against the sink. "You're an escaped convict, and soon I'll be as good as one. Again. We won't be crossing any borders."

Hannibal himself finishes, and sets about picking up the plates. "We cannot fly, but it will be a simpler matter to stow away on a boat. Or perhaps we can travel through Mexico. We will find a way."

"I guess it doesn't matter," Will says. When he thinks about it, really, he doesn't much care. They won't be taken alive, Will knows. Whatever happens... will be fine.

The thought is more liberating than any before it. 

"Mm," Hannibal says. He moves to the sink, and stands beside Will as he sets the plates inside of it to wash. Their elbows brush together. It isn't Hannibal's house, and he's slain the owner, and yet still he concerns himself with cleaning the tableware. Curious.

Will watches Hannibal quietly, glass of water in his hand. He doesn't offer to help, because it's a bit of a ridiculous waste of time to even bother, and it doesn't take long anyway. When Hannibal finishes, he turns, and looks Will right in the eye. Will says nothing.

Hannibal reaches out and brushes his thumb over Will's cheek. Will leans into his palm unthinkingly. Will would only have to move forward an inch to press their bodies together. He sets the glass down onto the counter in anticipation of what is to come.

Hannibal gently kisses Will's lips. Will stands stony and cold; it doesn't even occur to him to reciprocate. Hannibal moves against him but soon realizes he is receiving nothing in return, and pulls back. "Will?"

Will returns to attention at the sound of his name. "Oh," he says. "I —"

"If I recall, you were the one who first kissed me," Hannibal says. "Have you had a change of heart? Is this no longer what you want?"

Will doesn't know. He doesn't know that he wants this. He's not really thinking about what it means. He didn't kiss Hannibal back on the shore because he desired it, so much as it felt like the logical culmination of everything that came before it. He had to. There was no other way to bring himself any closer to the fire.

But now that they are back from the edge, everything feels a little bit more real. A little bit more dangerous. He hesitates to even speak the words.

When Will says nothing, Hannibal tries again. This time, Will decides to let it come. He's done thinking about anything but the here and now.

It's a less feral experience. Hannibal does not invade his mouth so aggressively. His touch is tender, his lips soft. He tastes good. It feels good. Will doesn't mind it, when he grows used to the scratchy stubble on Hannibal's face. It's not so different from any other kiss he's shared with a lover — not the unrestrainable passion of a new love, but something comfortable and familiar. It's the first they've kissed, and it's not.

But Hannibal's hands begin to wander. They inch down his back, lower and lower, until they cup over Will's ass and pull him close. Will feels Hannibal's erection against his hip and Hannibal feels Will stiffen, though perhaps not in the way he'd hoped. "Hannibal," Will breathes, breaking away.

Will can't make eye contact so Hannibal forces him to, hand beneath his chin. "Hannibal, what are you..." he begins, like he doesn't know.

"I want to make love to you, Will," Hannibal says. His expression is soft and yet does nothing to dull the way his eyes pierce right through him.

"Didn't you already?" Will replies.

Hannibal laughs, sincere. 

It's not as if Will is completely blindsided by the suggestion. Hannibal loves him, and craves him, and the physicality of his hunger obviously preceded any emotional connection they formed; Will suspected that it would come to this, were he to accept Hannibal the way that he now has. It made sense that it would come to this. What he hadn't accounted for was how he would feel about it when it did.

"I want to be close to you, in every way that it is possible," Hannibal says. He is still touching Will, lingering fingers on skin, like he can't bear to be apart from him. "You have given your heart to me, and I to you. I would have your body as well."

Will considers resisting for a brief moment, but what is the point? If Hannibal Lecter wants to have sex with him, he will. Hannibal is a force of nature that cannot be stopped or redirected by something so meager as the will of a man — if Will has learned anything, it is this. Better to let it come, wash over him like the storm, and find his peace in the wreckage. "I can't refuse you," he says, the words dead on his lips.

"Can't? Or won't?" Hannibal asks. "You devalue your own agency."

Will looks upon Hannibal's body and does not feel the visceral pull of... sexual hunger. It's nothing like being with a woman. He feels no shame or guilt or disgust about it, not now, after everything, but he doesn't think of it that way. If his shape belonged to any other man, he'd not entertain the thought.

Yet Hannibal is not any other man, and yet here he is, entertaining it. If it must come, he may as well make the best of it, he concludes. He can work to want it. In time, maybe that'll be enough.

So he searches for something that will make him feel. His eyes rake over Hannibal's legs, his hips; when he looks for it, Will can see the shape of his cock clearly beneath the fabric, half-hard. The dressing of Hannibal's torso draws his attention far better — it's criss-crossed with bandages, and there's more blood on the gauze over his shot. Will follows the lines up, over his chest... his gaze drifts to Hannibal's face, lingers on his lips as if in trepidation. When again their eyes meet, Will drowns.

"Will," Hannibal exhales, his grip firm on his face. "I love you."

Gone is the pretense and the obfuscation. Hannibal says it plainly and openly. His eyes disguise nothing, for once. Will feels not so much like he is lost as he is powerless; he knows precisely where he is, but has no strength to alter the tide.

"And you love me," Hannibal supplies, when Will remains silent. "You feel just as I do. You need me as one needs breath — I fill your lungs and your veins, your every thought, your dreams. It is my face that appears each time you close your eyes... you _see_ me. There is no virtue in self-deceit, and even less of a point. Not now that we have passed beyond the veil and begin on our next life."

Will sighs. "Hannibal..."

"Accept it, and let yourself be free to love me without reservation — as I do you," Hannibal says. "I want to hear it on your own lips, Will."

"I..."

Hannibal holds him close, urges him. "Say it," he demands.

Will gives in. Why not? What difference does it make? He closes his eyes and he breathes in and he wonders how it will sound when he breathes out, "I... love... you."

He expects it to feel like a platitude, but it doesn't. That scares him more than anything else. 

_What have I done?_

_What am I_ become _?_

When Will opens his eyes, Hannibal's are dark and black and endless and he sees himself reflected in them clearly. He has already let Hannibal inside of his soul. What matter is his body, next to that?

"Doesn't it feel good, Will?" Hannibal asks, his voice low in his throat. His hand curls around the back of Will's neck and he presses his lips over Will's eyes, one and then the other, until they are closed. He brings their foreheads together and breathes deeply of Will's breath, takes his scent and his essence into his body as his own. "Have you ever been so free?"

Will inhales, and exhales. His chest feels hot, his head light. Hannibal kisses him, again. It feels right.

"I'm not gay," Will says, but he does not push Hannibal away when he reaches for the buttons of his shirt.

"Of course not," Hannibal responds. He takes his time undoing the buttons, starting from the collar down. Will releases a ragged breath. "Such labels are terribly reductive. What we share transcends definition by the paucity of words."

"We're both injured badly. It'll hurt to..."

"I'll be gentle with you. Don't worry."

His protests only prolong the inevitable. Will accepts it. "What do you want me to do?" he asks.

"What do _you_ want to do?" Hannibal says. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of Will's shirt and push it back off his shoulders. It falls to the ground. Will shivers at the touch of Hannibal's cool fingers on his skin.

"You drowned there, in the water," Will answers. "I could have left you there on the shore and... crawled back into the sea."

"And yet, you chose instead to save me."

"No."

"No?"

Will shakes his head. "I had a choice. But not to let you live or let you die," he says. Hannibal's arms find his waist, and draw him close. They need not speak above a whisper to be heard. "When we went over the cliff — I decided —"

"That you would be with me, in life or in death," Hannibal finishes.

"Yes. And if I live on like... this, in the skin of what I've become, it has to be... I need..." Will swallows. Even now, it's difficult to articulate what he feels in words. "I chose to live. That was my choice." His fingertips dance on Hannibal's forearm, jittery. "So what is, had to be."

"You put your fate into God's hands, and He judged your path to be righteous," Hannibal says, reverent. 

"Don't be ridiculous, I just —"

"The world needs us and our fire. By our hands He cleanses the earth."

"You're so full of yourself," Will snorts.

Hannibal smiles fondly, and slowly lowers himself to his knees before Will. "I would be full of you, if you'll have me," he says.

The innuendo is so blatant that it's absurd and jarring. Will can't help but laugh. "God," he sighs, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. "Sometimes I can't even believe you."

"Take the pleasure I offer you," Hannibal says. His hands are braced on Will's thighs, his thumbs absently rubbing circles. 

"Are you going to bite it off?" Will asks. It's a fair question.

"Not today."

Will looks down at Hannibal at his feet, and reaches out to brush his hair back off of his forehead. Hannibal is more disheveled than Will had even first realized; his hair is messy, his face bruised, and his sunken eyes are ringed with dark circles. He is indescribably ugly and arrestingly beautiful. Looking at him revolts Will, and yet there is nowhere else his eyes would rather rest.

"Fine," Will says. He braces himself against the counter behind him. "Get on with it, then. Do what you want."

Hannibal smiles. His lips are split, but the cuts look fresh, like he can't stop himself from peeling off the scabs. He reaches out to undo the button of Will's fly, and he pulls down the zipper. Will's hand wanders into Hannibal's hair. 

When Hannibal fishes Will's cock from his pants, he's still soft. Will moves his fingers through Hannibal's hair almost compulsively, like petting a dog. Hannibal looks up at him with a mild amusement. "All of this, and you've yet felt nothing?" Hannibal asks.

Will sighs. "It's not like that for me," he says. "Also, I'm tired. I'm not even sure I have the blood for it. Cut me some slack."

Hannibal laughs, and presses his lips to the head of Will's cock.

Will's grip tightens on the counter behind him, and in Hannibal's hair. Hannibal kisses his cock like he kisses his lips, softly, with a flick of his tongue. Will discovers that he does, indeed, have the blood for it.

At first he thinks to close his eyes and imagine a woman. He thinks of Molly, but it isn't right. Hannibal's lips feel different, his mouth hotter. He's not nearly so careful with his teeth. So Will opens his eyes, and looks down, and sees Hannibal in all his honesty. He doesn't want this to be anything but what it is.

Hannibal takes his time with it. He's in no rush. He does little other than tease Will into an erection. He grips Will's cock in his hand with gentle pressure and pumps it lazily. "How does it feel, Will?" Hannibal asks.

"Feels like you're giving me a handjob, Hannibal," Will dryly answers.

Hannibal's grip turns hard. Will releases a small breath. "You've never thought of this before? Truly?"

Will looks away. He pulls his other hand back, because he needs it to support himself against the counter. "No," he answers.

Hannibal brings his fist up from the base to head, hard. "You're lying," he says.

"I'm not lying," Will protests, and looks back. But maybe he's not being entirely honest. "I didn't — I didn't imagine it would be like this." 

Will's breathing is growing uneven. Hannibal stills, looking up at Will with predatory eyes. "Tell me, then. What did you imagine? How did you picture this moment, Will?"

"I..." Will swallows a mouthful of spit and watery blood. He doesn't want to answer — doesn't want to think about it at all — but why does he even bother with shame? What does it matter? Who stands to judge him now? "I thought that you might rape me."

"Rape you?" Hannibal repeats, like that's not quite right.

"... No," Will says. "When I thought about how things would all end. When I thought about how you would kill me, I thought that — maybe — you might..."

"I might... ?"

Will licks his lips. His eyes dilate as he stares down into Hannibal's face, his cock against his cheek. "I thought about how you might fuck me, while I die. Maybe while you eat me. I imagined it'd be raw. More intimate that way."

"Hmn," Hannibal hummed, stroking Will in his fist. "That does sound nice, Will."

Will keeps going. He can't stop himself. "I thought that you might rip out my throat with your teeth, while you — while you fucked me in the — I —"

Will nearly chokes on his own tongue when Hannibal takes him fully into his mouth. Hannibal is finished teasing; he braces his hand at the base and he sinks down, sucks hard, moans in his throat around Will's cock. "Oh god," Will sighs, his hand in Hannibal's hair again, pulling at the roots. "Hannibal —"

Hannibal pulls back and off, wet, and his voice is scratchy when he rasps, "Don't stop." He descends again, unrelenting.

Will is salivating, pulsing. He's hard now, fully, lightheaded with the rush, and the words come easy. "I'd rip out your entrails with just my fingers," he pants. "And while you're above me, reach up inside, into your chest, and take your heart into my hand and I —"

Will's hands are shaking. Hannibal's mouth feels good. "I thought we would die together, me inside of you, you inside of me —" It's clearly not the first time Hannibal has sucked a cock. He's good at it, and well practiced, and he hungers for it, more than even Will does in this moment. "— all the blood in my mouth and I —" He moves quickly and he's so hot around him that Will feels like burning up. "I feel it choking me, filling my lungs until they burst and there's no distinction between where I end — and you — begin —"

And then Hannibal pulls off at just the last moment, gasping for air. Will all but collapses against the counter. "Why — why did you stop, I was gonna —"

Hannibal rises to his feet and kisses Will's lips. It's salty and full of spit and a bit of cum and Will chokes, gagging as Hannibal pushes it all into his mouth with his tongue. "I still remember the sound that you made when I gutted you, Will," Hannibal breathes against his mouth. His fingers dig into the scar on Will's stomach and the ghost of the memory shoots through his body as if the cut were fresh. "It rings in my ears even now, more beautiful than the finest symphony. How will you sound when I penetrate you now, with something much sharper than the blade of a knife?"

Will clings to Hannibal's arms, shaking. He's so close to the edge, panting, desperate. "Hannibal," he whimpers. He sounds pathetic. "Hannibal, I —"

Hannibal steps back to take Will's hand. "Come with me."

Will goes along with him, stumbling. Hannibal leads him to the bedroom, and pulls him down onto the bed into a kiss full of teeth. Will clambers to support himself, and presses his hand down on Hannibal's chest in the process. Hannibal seizes up at the touch. _Oh._

"How are your ribs?" Will finally thinks to ask. He broke them, after all.

"The pain is excruciating," Hannibal answers, straight-faced.

Will licks his own lips again, supported by his arms over Hannibal's body. "Do you want to wait?" he asks. "It'll be easier when we're —"

"I have waited far long enough to have you, Will," Hannibal says. "It is no matter. I will feel nothing but you when I am inside of you."

Something in Will's chest flutters. This is really happening, isn't it? Hannibal is going to fuck him. God.

Hannibal pushes him off and down onto his stomach and climbs over his back. Will feels Hannibal press against him, hard. Is he going to do it, just like that?

Not quite. Hannibal kisses the nape of his neck, his shoulders, down the curve of his back, and lower —

"What are you doing?" Will mumbles. He was hoping Hannibal would just get straight to it, so he could just come already. He's still trembling from the denial, heat pooled painfully in his groin.

Hannibal doesn't answer. Instead, he simply pulls down Will's pants, leaving them to bunch awkwardly around his calves, and buries his face into his ass.

"Oh, of course you would," Will groans, letting his forehead fall against the sheets. He fists his hands into the fabric as Hannibal presses his tongue against him, tense.

"Relax, Will," Hannibal hums. He spreads Will with his thumbs, drags his tongue up over his ass in a broad stroke. Will feels his breath seize in his throat.

Honestly, relaxing with a cannibal's tongue up your ass is easier said than done, but he does his best to comply. He bites into the sheets, spreads his knees...

Hannibal's mouth is wet. He lets himself drool into Will's ass as he licks, and Will shudders as the saliva drips down over his balls. The anticipation is painful, and the intrusion of his tongue burns. "God, just do it," Will implores. It takes all his strength to not just reach beneath himself and take matters into his own hands. He's sick and tired of waiting.

Regardless, Hannibal takes his time. He only pulls back when he thinks the moment is right, and then he's turning Will over onto his back again, crawls back up his body and — 

Ugh. His tongue tastes bitter, but Will isn't sure if he's imagining it or not. He relents to the kiss anyway, lets Hannibal settle in beside him — he holds onto Hannibal for support. Hannibal wets his fingers with spit and reaches down between Will's legs.

Hannibal's slick middle finger slides easily into his ass. Will's never gone up there with anything more than toilet paper, so it feels very strange and invasive and uncomfortable. He's suddenly self-conscious about his cleanliness, as if Hannibal would care. He draws in a breath between his teeth as Hannibal presses inside him, exploratory. It doesn't feel especially good. "You're too tight," Hannibal says, clicking his tongue.

What, is he supposed to feel bad about it? He does anyway. "S-sorry," Will stammers.

Hannibal laughs softly and adds a second finger. Will tightens his grip on Hannibal's shoulder. "I won't promise that it won't hurt, as inexperienced as you are," he says.

Will grits his teeth and snorts. "You worry about my pain _now?_ "

Hannibal smiles. The look is so sincere and fond that it makes Will's chest hurt. What the fuck is wrong with them? "I only mean to prepare you for what is to come," Hannibal says.

"I'm prepared," Will insists. "Do it. Get it over with."

"I intend to savor every moment of you, Will."

"Fine, I don't care, just — just do it —"

Hannibal sighs and withdraws his hand. "Such a thing is not meant to be rushed."

All the same, Will can't help his impatience. He needs the release. Frustrated, he paws at the catch of Hannibal's pants, but doesn't quite have the coordination to do it. Hannibal bats his hand away and rises from the bed to drop his pants to his ankles himself.

Will works to extract himself from his own pants, which were still tangled around his calves. He throws them from the bed, and when he looks back, Hannibal is already crawling back atop him.

"How did I have you, when you thought of me?" Hannibal asks. He is naked and plainly hard, his cock looming heavily above Will's own. Will takes a deep breath.

"Well, I'm — I'm on my back. Nearly dead, and I —"

Hannibal presses him flat, reaches back to lift and spread his legs. Will hooks one around his hip — the one that hadn't been shot — and braces himself, trepidation building in his chest. "I didn't, um. This wasn't the part I thought about in much detail. Honestly," Will admits.

"I am sure I am capable of filling in the blanks," Hannibal said, smiling. He grossly spits into his hand and reaches down to palm himself. 

Is he fucking _nervous?_ Will can't believe himself. After everything that's happened, all that they've been through, Will is afraid of having to touch a fucking dick for five minutes — 

And then Hannibal is finally pushing into him. It's startling. Will nearly jumps. "Oh, fuck," he mutters, his fingers digging into Hannibal's shoulderblades. He tries to maintain some levity in his tone. "It — it feels bigger than it looks —"

Hannibal snorts against the skin of Will's throat. "Are you making fun of me, Will?"

"What? Wh— No, I just — look, this isn't my usual activity. I'm getting used to it. It's gonna take me — a minute to —"

Hannibal's teeth graze Will's neck and he pulls in a sharp breath. Hannibal's cock sinks deeper, slowly — Will has suffered far worse pain, but the sensation is still intense. He feels it through his entire lower back, and the heat spreads further than that. "You're doing well, Will," Hannibal assures him. 

" _I'm_ not doing anything," he grits out.

Hannibal licks his throat, over the side of his face. "You're beautiful like this, beneath me. Around me."

Will forces a laugh. "You look like you got hit by a truck."

"And so sweet with your words," Hannibal says, dry.

The joke makes him feel a little more comfortable. He tries to relax as he takes it. Being so tense was only making it worse. Hannibal is pushing into him in increments, slightly deeper each time, and slowly and surely, it grows easier. Will controls his breathing, bringing himself down to calm...

Just as soon as Will thinks he's getting used to it, Hannibal pulls all the way out. Before Will can question why, Hannibal spits in his hand again, strokes himself wet, and in a single, forceful thrust, buries himself back inside.

Will yelps in surprise, seizing up, but it's over in an instant, and Hannibal stills, sheathed to the hilt. Hannibal pulls back to look Will in the eye, weight supported on his arm over Will's head. Their faces are still close. "Will."

"I'm ready," Will insists. He can feel Hannibal pulsing inside of him, hot and hard, and he wants it. He does. It's a relief. It's easier this way. "Give it to me. Please."

Hannibal kisses Will as he begins to move. He rolls his hips slowly, in and then out, taking care to watch Will's face for his every response. "How does it feel?"

"It feels — um." Will swallows. His palms slide over Hannibal's back, slick with sweat. He doesn't know why Hannibal cares so much that he say it. His words feel inadequate and of little value. "It hurts. A little. From the friction. And it — it — honestly, it feels like I'm taking a shit, Hannibal."

"Hmm," Hannibal remarks. He shifts, adjusts his angle so that his next stroke brushes up. Will definitely feels _that._

"Oh," Will says. The sensation spreads into his neglected cock in a warm heat. It feels sharper the second time Hannibal presses in against it.

"I am stimulating your prostate," Hannibal announces, clinical.

"... Thanks for letting me know." 

Hannibal still doesn't move with much speed, but he thrusts with more force behind him now. He strikes inside of Will's body where it counts, and Will is alarmed by how arresting it is, what sounds it draws up from his chest. 

"Yes, Will," Hannibal all but purrs against his throat, rolling hard and deep. "Like that. Sing for me."

He feels weird about it. It's hard not to feel weird about all of this. He doesn't bother to hold back, though — what's the point? He gives Hannibal what he wants — the full force of his passion, unreserved and laid bare. "It — it feels good," he exhales, and it does, it does.

Having Hannibal inside of him is much more than the physical sensation. He reaches into Will much deeper than the end of his cock, in tendrils of poison and rot. Will feels him so acutely above him, around him, and it suffocates him, but like this he no longer needs air. He breathes Hannibal into his lungs and feels more alive than he ever has, now that the humanity inside of him is well and truly dead.

"Hannibal, I," Will chokes. Hannibal doesn't stop, drives in, lips at his neck — Will moans in his throat and feels it through his entire body. "I want you to —"

Hannibal draws back, just far enough to see him. "Will?"

"Bite me," Will begs, breathless, without even thinking about it. "I want you to — bite —"

Hannibal's steady, slow rhythm does not abate. "Where?"

"My throat. My throat. Bite it. Bite me."

"Hard?"

"Hard," Will says.

Hannibal does not hesitate. He sinks his teeth into the flesh of Will's throat and Will cries out, arches up into the pain — Hannibal doesn't bite deep enough to tear flesh but he draws blood, and it runs from Will's neck in thin drops, into Hannibal's mouth and over his lips to soak the white sheets beneath them. Hannibal licks at the wound as he thrusts, his pace only now growing erratic. 

"Again," Will gasps. Hannibal obliges. He bites Will again, on the other side of his neck — and then again, closer to the shoulder, where it's safer for him to bear down with his jaws.

Will is ecstatic. The pain and adrenaline courses through him like a shot, and he's feverish, incoherent, and it's not enough — Hannibal is too controlled, won't let him set the pace, no matter how he begs for it and writhes on his cock. He wants Hannibal to rip him apart until his chest splits open and there is no barrier between them beyond blood and meat.

Will doesn't even know what he's saying. The words leave his mouth before he even considers them. "Choke me," he demands.

Hannibal draws back and immediately obeys. His hand closes around Will's throat, firm. He is blocked from all air. He feels Hannibal's cock inside of him that much more intensely and death feels so close Will can taste it — 

And that's the thrill of it, really. Will has no idea if Hannibal will stop. He claws at the hands at his throat desperately, driven by animalistic self-preservation, but Hannibal only grips tighter, and Will feels his strength begin to fade, his vision go hazy. 

Hannibal releases his neck and Will draws in an enormous desperate breath, brought forcefully back to focus, but he's not allowed long to rest. Hannibal takes him again, gripping even more tightly now. Will can feel his pulse beating through his face, his head aching, and it's so _loud_ he can't hear anything else, not even his own gasping.

And then Will lets go. His arms go limp, his legs spread, and he lets it come, lets Hannibal fuck into him and crush his bleeding throat. He looks up into Hannibal's face above him, blurry from oxygen deprivation and tears, but he sees him clearly, black and skeletal wreathed by thorn. Will feels the darkness in him, building in his body to a crest, and as the last of his strength begins to leave him, Hannibal leans in, opens his mouth to swallow him whole — 

Hannibal lets go when the release takes him. Will breathes in and returns to his senses to find his body wracked with the pulsing waves of his orgasm, coming hard onto his own stomach without ever being touched. He gasps, loud and hoarse, rocking as Hannibal continues to drive into him with his cock.

Hannibal pursues his own pleasure with much less care than he afforded Will. Will groans and holds on as Hannibal fucks him, overstimulated, but it doesn't take much longer for him to finish and empty himself into Will's body, breathing heavily by his ear as he comes. 

And just like that, it's over. Hannibal pulls out, and he rolls over to lie beside Will. Will stares at the ceiling, dazed.

"Huh," Will mumbles. 

"I trust that it was satisfactory," Hannibal says.

Will turns his head to look at him, and Hannibal does the same. He thought he would, but Will doesn't feel different, not really. It doesn't feel like much of anything has changed.

Hannibal laughs, and it's infectious. Will feels a little ridiculous. It's all a little ridiculous, really. It's good to be able to laugh, still, in spite of it all. Or maybe it isn't. It lets him feel a little too human.

Hannibal reaches out to pull Will into his arms and Will goes along with it. He rests his cheek against Hannibal's chest and listens to his heartbeat as it gradually slows to a gentle pace. Will finds it soothing.

Will registers dimly in the back of his mind that maybe it's strange to be so comfortable like this, but fear and shame and regret feel distant to him now. He has passed the point of no return, and nothing feels like it carries any weight, or holds any consequence. It's peaceful, to not worry. To not think.

"When are you going to eat me?" Will asks, an idle curiosity. He isn't scared of the answer.

Will feels Hannibal smile against the top of his head. "When the time is right, my love."

"When will that be? Five years from now? A month? Tonight?"

"I expect we will both know the moment when it arrives," Hannibal says. He strokes Will's back, soothing. "Will you be ready for it, when it does?"

Will allows his eyes to close.


End file.
